


little plaid skirt & tie

by kattyshack



Series: snowflakes [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: prompt fill (@jonsasnow): “my lil sister’s staying over and she’s mad at me so she hid all my clothes all over the building so that’s why i’m wearing this really inappropriate schoolgirl costume while i try to find it, not because i’m a weirdo i swear” —aka sansa runs into her new neighbor jon while rather scantily clad ;D





	little plaid skirt & tie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jonsasnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonsasnow/gifts).



Perhaps she should have, but Sansa never anticipated that her sister’s love for revenge scavenger hunts would result in her hopping out the shower to face an empty closet.

Oh, Arya hadn’t left her _entirely_ bereft, Sansa thinks with a slight grimace. No, she’d snatched her phone from her bedside table to find that ever-so-promising text: _Check the kitchen. Game on, princess._

It’s Sansa’s own fault, really; even she can admit to that. Just last night she and Arya had popped into the corner pub where Gendry tends bar, and after a few drinks Sansa may have told him that Arya was “warm for his form.” Gendry had flushed deepest red and Arya had gritted her teeth in angry embarrassment, but considering the two of them had ended the night going at it in Sansa’s spare bedroom, she figured she was in the clear.

But when Sansa checks the kitchen, that’s most decidedly  _not_ the case. She texts her sister back:

**You can’t seriously expect me to wear this.**

_Why not? You’re the one who bought it._

**For HALLOWEEN, not casual everyday wear!**

_It’s that or a towel. You need new towels, btw, yours are all so threadbare. You’d probably get arrested if you walked out of the flat in one, come to think of it._

**And I won’t get arrested in THIS??**

_Less likely than one of your towels._

**I can’t believe I got you laid and this is the way you repay me. AND you used up all the whipped cream. With Gendry, no doubt.**

_No doubt, indeed. Your wardrobe is strategically placed around the building. The sooner you get dressed and find everything, the sooner we can go to the shop and I’ll buy you all the whipped cream you want._

**After what I heard through the wall last night? I’m never eating whipped cream again, thanks. P.S. You’re washing those sheets.**

_Might be easier if I just bought you new ones._

**I regret outing your thirst for Gendry.**

_Perhaps searching the building for your underthings will teach you a valuable lesson in SHUTTING UP._

**Yes, because this ended so horribly for you.**

_Look, I need to compensate for the stupid smug look on Gendry’s face, alright? Let me have SOME dignity._

Arya gives her sister until midnight to locate the pieces of her misplaced wardrobe on her own, and then she’ll come to the rescue if Sansa hasn’t managed it. An hour and a half, Arya declares, is sufficient enough punishment, and then she’ll take Sansa out for frozen yoghurt at the all-night place down the road.

In the end, Sansa relents, partly because she’s a sucker for frozen yoghurt, and partly because she has no choice in the matter, anyway. She considers her towel—which really _is_ awfully threadbare, as Arya had noted—but after much deliberation, she decides that the outfit Arya’s left her is the lesser of two evils. It’s nearly ten-thirty on a Saturday night, after all; most of her neighbors are likely out and about, so with any luck she won’t run into anyone on this social suicide mission.

The outfit’s all well and good for Halloween in two weeks’ time, but how could Sansa explain why she’s wandering around the building in a sexy schoolgirl getup beforehand?

She sorely regrets letting Margaery talk her into the costume in the first place. The shirt bares her midriff and most of her cleavage, and the skirt doesn’t leave much of her legs to the imagination, either; the lacy black tights are hardly any help in that regard. Thankfully, her slippers had been in the bathroom with her, so she at least spares herself the need to traipse the corridors in the costume’s stiletto boots. She does, however, decide to wear the little matching tie, purely for the hell of it.

So that’s how Sansa Stark—in all her scantily clad glory between her still-damp hair and fuzzy pink slippers, and her half-filled rolling hamper in tow—meets her new neighbor.

Arya had texted her a list of clues, some obscure and others obvious, and his apartment number happens to be one of the latter. He’s just down the hall, so once Sansa collects the pile of her clothes that Arya had unceremoniously dumped just outside her own door, she makes her way to apartment 8.

This certainly isn’t _ideal_ , Sansa admits as she raps her knuckles smartly against his door. He’d moved in earlier that week, and while she hadn’t gotten a chance for a proper introduction, the few glances she’d caught had her fantasizing wildly about their imminent wedding. He’s handsome, and on Tuesday he’d held the door for her when her arms were full of groceries and she was on the phone with her chatty aunt; she’d tossed him a grateful smile, and his answering grin made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

Sansa doesn’t use the phrase “hubba hubba” often, but, you know… hubba hubba.

But he doesn’t need to _know_ about any of that, she reaffirms, straightening her shoulders. She’s Sansa Stark, for fuck’s sake. She’s confident, self-assured, even occasionally cocky, and just because the outfit her sister had forced her into is _ridiculous_ doesn’t mean she’s not totally killin’ it.

 _You’re Sansa Stark_ , she tells herself again, tugging at the collar of what is, for all intents and purposes, a low-cut crop top. _You’re confident, you’re cool, you’re collected, you’ve got great legs—_

The door opens.

_Aaaaaand you’re a total goner on this handsome sonofabitch._

“Oh my god,” her neighbor says by way of greeting. His eyes are wide behind wire-framed specs, and—perhaps it’s only a subconscious reflex _but_ —he doesn’t even try to keep them trained on her face. His gaze sweeps down and up and down again, an eyebrow raises at her fuzzy slippers, and then he’s looking at her again and he asks, “You’re not a strippergram, are you?”

Sansa would be offended, but all things considered, she can’t rightfully blame him for asking. She can, however, still take the piss.

“Right, that’s me,” she drawls, “don’t mind my inappropriate footwear or the hamper, it all comes together about halfway through the dance, you’ll see.”

He grins, crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. His eyes flick down to her legs again—specifically, she thinks, at the lace tops of the tights slung over her thighs. “I’m Jon.”

“Sansa,” she tells him. Her manners dictate that she should shake his hand, but he’s still got his arms crossed so she doesn’t bother offering. Instead, she waggles her phone in his general direction, as if that explains why she’s shown up half-naked at his door when they haven’t been formally introduced ‘til now. “It’s… complicated… but my sister’s using my clothes as bait in a revenge scavenger hunt. One of the clues was your flat number, so…?”

“Oh.” Jon’s face colors a bright pink. “Erm. Right. That why I’m hoarding a bunch of, um, lingerie, then?”

_“What?”_

“Yeah,” he continues while she gapes at him. “There was a knock on my door about an hour ago, and when I answered it there was just a pile of… stuff… sitting on my mat. There was a note pinned to one of the, er, _items_ , so I didn’t throw anything out or… anything like that.”

Sansa huffs impatiently. What the hell was Arya on about, dumping her lingerie at Jon’s place? She knows that Sansa’s been mooning over the handsome new neighbor all week, so—

_Oh. OH._

Well, Sansa thinks, if Arya wanted to get back at her for playing matchmaker with Gendry, then this is a suitable punishment indeed. She’s not sure whether she wants to throttle her little sister or high-five her, but Sansa supposes she can decide later, depending on how this little orchestrated meet-cute with Jon works out.

“What’s the note say?”

“Oh—erm—” Jon fishes it from his pocket, adjusts his specs, and reads, “ _‘Long story short, these belong to my sister. Don’t throw them out; she’ll be by later to pick them up. She’s hot for you. xoxo, Gossip Girl. P.S. Don’t do anything pervy with them, either. You don’t seem like a perv, but if I find out you are, you should know I’m a champion gymnast and cheerleader. My high-kick could kill a man. Don’t be that man.’_ ”

Sansa laughs as Jon folds up the note and stuffs it back into his jeans. “Yeah, that’s Arya, all right. What are you keeping that for?”

Jon shrugs. “Not often that I’ve got it in writing that a gorgeous girl’s hot for me. I like your tie, by the way.”

“Oh—ha—um, thanks?” Sansa feels a bit whiplashed. Don’t get her wrong, okay, because she knows she’s gorgeous, but she’s weak for Jon’s blush, too. “This is the only thing Arya left for me. I suppose the tie wasn’t necessary, but—”

“Go big or go home, right?”

“Right.”

Jon shuffles his feet in the doorway. Sansa bites her lip. His eyes drop again, this time to where she’s worrying her lip with her teeth. She watches his throat bob as he swallows, almost audibly. She finds she rather likes that.

“Do you want to come in?” Jon invites, jerking his head towards the inside of his flat. “You can collect your things. And if—you know, if you’d like, I made dinner earlier and I was just heating the leftovers.”

“Sure,” Sansa agrees, maybe too eagerly. But Jon smiles again and, really, who _wouldn’t_ be eager over that? So she steps through the door when he makes room for her and teases, “Do you treat all your strippergrams so hospitably, or is it just me?”

“Oh, trust me,” Jon says seriously, his eyes following the swing of her little plaid skirt, “it’s just you.”

* * *

It’s half-past midnight when Arya pounds on the door to apartment 8.

She’d been trying to get ahold of Sansa for the past forty-five minutes. When she’d returned to the building to find that Sansa hadn’t reached destination two (the third-floor maintenance cupboard) to pick up her clothes, she figured she must’ve gotten tied up at the broody-looking new neighbor’s. This means, of course, that Arya’s plan had gone smoothly, and that’s all fine and dandy but she’s still getting frozen yoghurt whether Sansa likes it or not.

A loud _thump!_ comes from the other side of the door, followed by an even louder giggle, and then the door opens to reveal a disheveled-looking Jon, clad only in unbuttoned jeans and—

“Oh my _god_ ,” Arya snorts in disgust as she surveys him, “isn’t that the tie from Sansa’s costume?”

“Er—” Jon scratches his head as he looks down at his bare chest, save for the offending swatch of plaid cotton. He fingers the tie around his neck. “Well, you see—”

“You _are_ a perv.” Arya rolls her eyes, then shakes her head. She grabs Sansa’s hamper that’s sitting just inside the door. “Tell my sister I’ve got the rest of her clothes, and I’ll keep a frozen yoghurt in the fridge for her. Gendry’s coming by after his shift again tonight, though, so she should probably stay here unless she wants to be as traumatized as I am after seeing you in that tie.”

Sansa’s voice trills from the direction of the sitting room, “You deserve it, after you used up all my whipped cream!”

“Whipped cream?” Jon echoes, looking from Arya to the interior of his flat. That stupid tie sways with the enthusiastic turn of his head. “I’ve got whipped cream.”

“Well I’ll leave you to it, then!” Arya pipes up. She hoists the hamper into one arm and uses her free hand to give Jon a salute. “Just remember, mate, that I can kill you with a well-placed kick if need be, you hear?”

Jon’s only half-looking at her, still distracted by Sansa and whipped cream, but his nod is good enough for Arya. “I hear.”

Satisfied, Arya takes her leave, but not before Jon shuts the door and she catches him say to her sister, “If you let me use the whipped cream, I’ll _think_ about putting on the skirt, but that’s the best I can offer you.”

With that mental image, Arya almost regrets exacting her sisterly revenge like this. But then Sansa’s laughter rings in the silence of the corridor, and she decides—with a little smirk and another roll of her eyes—that she can handle this particular brand of emotional scarring.


End file.
